


Souvenir

by zeraparker



Category: Formula E RPF, Motorsport RPF
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Play, Banter, Comeplay, Dirty Talk, Established Relationship, Hand Jobs, Light Bondage, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Overstimulation, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn, Porn with Feelings, Prostate Massage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-13
Updated: 2019-12-13
Packaged: 2021-02-26 00:20:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,219
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21781255
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zeraparker/pseuds/zeraparker
Summary: “I did some research.”André laughs. “You watched porn,” he says, then moans when Carl closes his hand around André’s dick, giving him a languid stroke that makes his hips follow Carl’s touch up from the pillow André is resting on.“You are spending too much time in Stuttgart, I was bored,” Carl says, shrugging.~It's André's birthday in Riyadh, 2019.
Relationships: Carl Gurdjian/André Lotterer
Comments: 5
Kudos: 21





	Souvenir

**Author's Note:**

> Let me get one thing straight: if you have come here to read plot, this isn't the place for you. The whole fic is basically a single drawn out smut scene. That's it. There's some banter and it's definitely happy porn, because I haven't written enough non-angsty stuff lately, but yeah. Just porn, nothing else. You're warned.  
And I still love this pairing so yeah. Way too obsessed with them.
> 
> Big big thanks to lost_decade, as always, for enabling me. There's a reason your number is saved into my phone with a little grinning devil emoji next to your name.

They’ve been at it for a while. André’s body is stretched out in front of him. The rosy hue fresh out of the shower is gone, his body now flushed from arousal rather than the hot water that’s evaporated in the cool air of the air conditioning. Carl would prefer to open a window, allow the warm temperatures of the Saudi Arabian desert into the room, but they’re up on a high floor, the floor to ceiling windows unable to be opened. Outside, the city and the race track are sparkling in the darkness. The lamps inside are dimmed low enough that they barely cast any reflection onto the glass. In front of him, André moans, his body undulating, arse pushed back in offering to where Carl is languidly licking into him. Carl draws back, making André groan into the mountain of pillows at the top of the bed.

“Don’t stop,” André pleads, twisting his head to try and gaze over his shoulder, down the long expanse of his back. Carl smiles indulgently, rubbing his stubble against the soft skin where André’s arse cheek turns into leg, bites at the muscle hard enough for André to tense and curse. Carl can’t see his hands where André extended his arms beneath the many pillows, the headboard not giving him anything to hold on, doesn’t have to see to know that his fingers are grasping onto the edge of the mattress tightly, restraining himself from reaching back, to steer Carl’s mouth where he wants it.

“Patience, darling,” Carl drawls, but gives in. It is André’s birthday after all. He kisses his way back in between André’s arsecheeks, licking over his hole with the flat of his tongue a couple times until André returns to moan breathily, then points his tongue, fucking into him with a lazy rhythm. André bucks his hips, answering every thrust of Carl’s tongue. The way he’s got his knees drawn up towards his flanks is giving him some leverage, though it leaves his hard cock to strain up against his stomach, barely any touch to it. Carl smirks against his skin when he hears André whine in frustration, anticipates the shift of his shoulders which he counters with his thumb pressing viciously against his perineum, rubbing in a tight circle. “No hands.”

“Fuck,” André moans, long and drawn out, the end of the word muffled as he bites into one of the pillows. “Not fair.”

“No?” Carl asks amused, biting at André’s arse again, his thumb moving through the slick of his saliva to dip into André’s hole instead, making him shudder.

“No.” André shifts against the fine weave of the sheets, dragging his chest over it as he stretches. “Gimme… something,” he pants as Carl fucks his thumb deeper into him, as far as he dares without having added actual lube yet, knowing that saliva will only get them  _ that _ far. He sits back up on his knees, looking down at André for a moment before he leans over him, nuzzling at the protrusion of his shoulder blades, kissing at his neck.

“Ok,” he agrees, nosing through the damp hairs at the back of André’s neck as he reaches out with his free hand for one of the throw pillows. He’d spotted it earlier, when he’d sat back against the pillows waiting for André to come out of the shower, having allowed his hands to stray over the different expensive materials. The rectangular pillow is firmly stuffed, the fabric of its silken pillow case cool to the touch. Golden stitching runs in irregular, almost floral patterns across the sublimely dyed silk, creating friction against his palm as he grabs for it now. “Lift up a little.”

André has turned his head, his eyes widening slightly as he sees what Carl reached for. “No, you can’t, we’ll ruin-” he starts, then bites his lip when Carl rubs the pillow along his flank, then unceremoniously stuffs it into the space between André’s stomach and the bed, André’s legs on either side effectively keeping it in place.

“Yeah, let’s ruin it,” Carl says as he slides back down along André’s back, tracing his spine with his lips and tongue, feeling him shiver as André involuntarily rubs down against the pillow, groaning. “Maybe I’ll steal it later,” he suggests as his tongue returns to where his thumb is still pushing into André, countering the movement into a dissonant rhythm. “Keep it as a souvenir.”

“God, fuck you can’t,” André protests, but it’s weak as he’s started to hump down against the pillow, the pillowcase providing the friction he is so desperate for, pushing his arse back against Carl’s face and his hand with every thrust. He’s breathing heavily, though the sounds are muffled as he’s pushed his face into the pillows at the top of the bed. Carl is tempted to point out that he’s probably ruining more than just the pillow he’s fucking down against, but having André let go like this is too rare an occasion, and he doesn’t want to ruin the mood, not when it’s only the start of the night. He focuses, doubling his efforts as he feels André shudder and fall apart beneath him, the tension in the strong muscles of his thigh as he runs his free hand up and down André’s leg, soothing and goading him on at the same time, feeling his body heat spike.

“Yes, come on, baby,” Carl encourages. The plastic click of the lube bottle opening gets drowned out by André’s whine, and Carl pulls back a little to watch as he lifts the bottle above André’s upturned arse, squeezing a generous dollop to drip from it down onto André’s hole. It’s cool to the touch, must feel freezing against André’s heated skin as he curses loudly and comes just as Carl uses the slick to replace his thumb with two fingers pushing deep into André against the tight spasming of his muscles around them. André’s legs lock around the pillow he’s been rubbing off against, his whole body strung tight as he pushes his release into the fabric. 

Carl has discarded the lube bottle, rubbing his free hand soothingly over the small of his back gently. “That’s it,” he coos, his fingers still inside André’s arse, and his own cock throbs in sympathy against the buttons of the jeans he’s wearing, only having discarded of his shirt upon his arrival earlier. He moves his fingers slightly, dragging another shiver out of him as he rubs his fingertips over André’s prostate in a gentle circle, watching as his balls tighten, another jerk of his hips into the pillow.

“Fuck,” André groans. He shifts, his body tilting to the side, and Carl moves with him, watching as André comes to rest on his side, his legs still drawn up against his body, the pillow clenched between his muscular thighs. He must have let go of the edge of the mattress, his bicep hiding his face, though Carl can still see he’s flushed, the heavy lift and fall of his chest.

“Good?” Carl asks as he shifts along André’s back, propping himself up with his free hand next to André’s head. He leans down, kissing André’s arm, nuzzling along the tickling skin along his armpit until André tries to swat him away, the movement revealing his flushed face. He rewards André’s cheek with a slow drag and thrust of his fingers, cutting off whatever André had opened his mouth to say, turning it into a strangled noise, the muscles around his eyes twitching. He leans over André for a kiss, feeling him unwind and relax as his body works through the last shivers of his orgasm. When he draws back, André’s eyes are closed, his lips parted and shiny with spit. Carl kisses him again.

“You going to fuck me?” André asks into Carl’s mouth, sighing languidly.

Carl sits back, withdrawing his fingers from André and wiping them on his jeans before he can catch himself. He frowns in annoyance at the stain he’s left there, seeing André grin faintly when he looks back at André. 

“Hm, kinda,” he says, watching André’s eyebrows quirk confusedly. He gets up from the bed, reaching down to adjust his dick in his jeans, biting the inside of his cheek to keep from moaning loudly. “Want something to drink?” he asks as he grabs a bottle of water from the minibar, sad that they can’t at least have some champagne. He doesn’t feel like getting drunk, and knows that with the racing over the next days, André wouldn’t want to either, but damn it, birthdays! André shakes his head as Carl gulps down half the bottle, taking it with him as he picks up the small bag he had taken along when he’d come to André’s hotel room. The zipper is already undone, the lube somewhere on the mattress. Carl tosses the bag onto the bed before he climbs back onto the mattress at the foot of the bed, crawling over André for another kiss. “Turn onto your back?” he asks at the end of their kiss, back close to where he’d kneeled earlier, sitting down cross-legged, thankful that the mattress is nice and firm, making it easy to keep his balance.

André just watches him for a long moment, his insecurity at being on display like this shining through before he consciously pulls himself together, shifting. Carl reaches out, grasping the pillow before André can kick it away, lifting it out of his reach. The stains of his spunk are clearly visible where they’re wetting the expensive fabric. Carl brings it to his face, licking through it where it hasn’t seeped away yet, hearing André’s choked off groan.

“God, you’re gorgeous like this,” Carl says as he looks down at André, taking in the wide expanse of his chest; the soft hairs shadowing his skin that Carl knows are starting to turn the same silvery shade as the hair at his temple, that Carl knows if he pointed it out André would deny; the outline of the muscles of his abs, his defined chest, the shape of his arms and thighs. His cock is flushed and half hard where it’s lying against his lower stomach. Carl can feel his mouth water, the taste of André’s spunk on his tongue, but that’s not where he wants the night to go. He tabs André’s hip. “Lift up?” he asks, watching André frown, his eyes flickering back to the soiled pillow. “You want us to ruin more than one?” Carl asks. André’s cheeks flush, his eyes closing as he pushes his feet into the bed on either side of Carl, lifting his hips for Carl to stuff the firm pillow beneath his arse. “That’s better.”

“What have you planned?” André asks, his voice hoarse. He’s blinking up at Carl, his eyes flickering away over and over again, not quite able to hold Carl’s steady gaze while lying so exposed before him. He wets his lips with his tongue, biting into the flesh. His hands are moving restlessly over the sheets. Carl loves watching him squirm, but knows it’s a fine line to walk. He reaches out, lifting his hands to run his palms up and down the insides of André’s thighs, watching as the simple touch soothes him, anchoring him back in the moment.

“So I was thinking,” Carl starts, looking down at his own hands as he rubs one hand up over André’s stomach, fingers carding through the neatly trimmed hair around the base of his cock. He watches it twitch as he runs the tip of his index finger up the sensitive underside of it. “We’re neither at my place, nor at yours, and Riyadh isn’t really the place to be caught at the airport smuggling sex toys,” he muses, startling a laugh out of André, grinning himself, despite the less than funny implications he really doesn’t feel like thinking about. “So it’s a bit back to basics, working with what we’ve got,” he continues, wriggling his fingers against André’s skin. He looks up over André’s head at the fabric covered headboard which doesn’t lend itself as a prop either. Instead he reaches into the bag, drawing out a silky red scarf they’ve played with before, though it would usually find itself wrapped around André’s head, depriving him of sight. “Give me your hands.”

André complies, holding out his hands. He’s back to chewing his lip, though he smiles when Carl kisses his knuckles before wrapping the fabric of the scarf around one of his wrists, securing it with a couple of neatly tied knots before he moves onto the other wrist, repeating the process with the other end of the scarf. It leaves André’s hands connected by a stretch of fabric, long enough for Carl to place it in André’s hands, giving him something to hold onto at the same time as drawing his wrists closer together. He pushes one long finger beneath the fabric around his wrists, checking it’s loose enough not to cut off circulation, feeling the rapid flutter of his heartbeat. It’s make-belief more than anything, but André lifts his arms over his head, settling back into the pillows when Carl lets go of his hands, and his willingness to submit takes Carl’s breath away for a moment, makes his cock throb painfully against the front of his jeans with the sudden urge to take.

“So anyway,” Carl starts, then has to clear his throat with how hoarse his voice sounds. “So, it had me thinking: something simple. Something hands on. Not spanking, I can’t have you bruised and sore when you’ve got to drive your car this weekend,” he narrates, deliberately keeping his voice even despite the little choked up noises André makes, the flush on his face intensifying, his cock starting to harden again despite his orgasm not long ago. “No, something to have you relaxed and feeling good. Something like a massage.” He leans to the side, picking up the bottle of lube he’d discarded earlier. It’s not their usual brand, instead one he picked up because the description advertised its double use as massage gel, just what he’d needed. He squeezes a generous amount into his palm, this time warming it between his hands. “I did some research.”

André laughs. “You watched porn,” he says, then moans when Carl closes his hand around André’s dick, giving him a languid stroke that makes his hips follow Carl’s touch up from the pillow André is resting on.

“You are spending too much time in Stuttgart, I was bored,” Carl says, shrugging, then falls silent as he concentrates on slicking his palms up and down over André’s cock, spreading the lube all over his crotch. He cups his balls with one hand, squeezing them gently in his palm before going lower to where his arsehole is still slick with lube and spit. Pushing two fingers back into him is easy, André’s body not resisting him at all as he buries his fingers deep into him, zeroing in on his prostate to rub at it like he did before, making André moan in pleasure. “It was very educating,” Carl murmurs, watching the way André is writhing on the bed in front of him, his body undulating into Carl’s touch, control like hot fire in his own veins. “Too much?”

André shakes his head erratically, his hips canting to meet Carl’s fingers like he’s expecting Carl to pull them back out, thrust into him, but Carl moves his hand along, keeps his fingers right where he wants them, the pads rubbing in gentle, even patterns over that sensitive spot inside him. With his thumb he rubs over his perineum, massaging him from inside and out. He loosens his grip around André’s cock, holding him in a loose fist as he watches a drop of come well up at the tip, then swipes it away with the pad of his thumb, making André moan.

“There’s this theory, you know.” Carl forgets what he was going to say for a moment as he watches the way André is straining back into the fingers in his arse, then up into the featherlight touch of Carl’s fist around him. His eyes flicker up to look at André’s face, the way he’s got his head pushed back into the pillows, his fingers in a knuckle-white grip around the scarf that’s binding them. His eyes are screwed shut tight, his mouth open as he draws harsh breaths. Carl lets go of his dick, spreading his hand over the muscles of André’s lower stomach, pushing down lightly. “Hey, relax,” he suggests over the sound of André whining at the loss of stimulation to his dick. He strokes his palm up and down André’s stomach, to his flank, slowing the ministration of his fingers against André’s prostate to the lightest, steady touch. “Mmh, baby, don’t be so tense, we got all night, all the time in the world.”

André lets out a shuddering breath, his eyes fluttering open as he groans. “Carl, please-” he says, his voice a hoarse murmur.

“Right, so this theory,” Carl starts, ignoring the next groan from André. He keeps his touches light, soothing, feeling him relax gradually. “They say that through just prostate massaging, you can have really intense orgasms,” he says, increasing the strength with which he’s moving his fingers inside André as he speaks. “I thought we could give that a try.”

“God, fuck,” André groans, closing his eyes again as he thumps his head into the pillows, though he doesn’t look as tense as before, his breathing more even as he visibly forces himself to take deep breaths.

“I take that as approval.” Carl smiles to himself, feeling the heat of André’s skin where he’s stroking his stomach and thighs with his hand. 

André’s cock is rock hard by now, another droplet of precome welling up from the tip, smearing across his skin. He can feel André sinking further into the sensation with every passing minute. Silence settles over them like a blanket, all the banter and talking unnecessary now that they let their touches say everything, Carl’s eyes roaming over André’s body, taking in every minute shift of his muscles, the way his limbs are trembling slightly against the sheets, the thin sheen of sweat breaking out over his skin, glistening in the low, warm light of the room. He’s beautiful like this, his hair a little wild against the many pillows, the way his arms are still stretched above him, held there by his will to submit rather than actual restraints. His face is flushed, his lips parted and red from being chewed on; Carl wants to kiss him, wants to lick at his lips soothingly. It’s something that will have to wait until later, until he can wrap his arms around André and stroke his hair and nuzzle the long line of his throat. He wants to lick him, to smell him, not just the general scent of sex that’s hanging musky and sweet in the air around them, but all the different, flighty fragrances: how the skin smells behind André’s ear, how the taste of his skin changes when Carl follows his chest muscle from his sternum outwards to the pale, ticklish skin of his armpit, the broken noise André makes when Carl nips at his nipple with his teeth. He’s done all this before, but usually in the runup to fucking, to something more elaborate than the simple touch of his fingers right now. They should give this more time, he thinks, just the simple touch of their hands on each other, reminding him of the vague idea of whisking André away for a couple days during the winter break, just a cabin somewhere with snow and a fireplace and no wifi to distract them from each other. But that’s a suggestion to be made with a clear head once the weekend is over.

Carl sighs, shaking himself out of it, his eyes returning to watch more fluid dribble steadily from the tip of André’s cock, listening to the quiet noises constantly falling from his lips now. The skin along his thighs is puckered with goosebumps, his muscles quivering uncontrollably around Carl’s fingers. He presses harder into André, prompting his dick to jerk feebly as it spills more milky slick into the pool gathering on André’s stomach. André whines.

“Good?” he asks, his eyes flickering up from the mesmerising sight of André’s flushed cock.

André blinks, his eyes glassy when he glances down. “Please,” he murmurs, his body arching off the bed languidly. It pushes Carl’s fingers deeper into him, firmer, wrenching another desperate noise from his throat as his body shudders. Picking up on it, Carl stops playing around, steady pressure in maddening small circles as he feels André clench around his fingers suddenly, moaning loudly. “Fuck,” he gasps, then repeats the curse a couple times as his hips buck down against Carl’s fingers. His cock jumps, straining away from his stomach, thick spurts of come pulsing from the tip spilling onto his quivering stomach, untouched.

“Fuck, that’s so hot,” Carl hears himself say, his own voice hoarse, and he can’t help himself, he’s got to touch him. André’s cock is blistering hot and so hard against his palm, and André all but sobs under the sudden stimulation, his hips snapping upwards, fucking his dick into Carl’s fist as he squeezes his hand around him, feeling his dick pulse and jerk in his hand, a slick slide with the amount of come and lube still all over him.

“Carl,” André whines, his voice high pitched and shivery, breaking on the single, drawn out syllable of his name before he sobs again, and when Carl looks up he can see the wetness of tears at the corners of André’s eyes, his features sharp with what must be almost painful overstimulation. André repeats his name, but it’s barely more than a whisper this time, and Carl can’t hold himself back anymore, the urge to claim his lips as much as the rest of his body making him let go of André’s softening dick, gently pull his fingers from within him. André sobs brokenly at the loss of sensation as Carl shifts onto his knees, leaning over André’s body, arms encircling his chest to gather André against himself. André’s arms wrap around his back, the soft fabric of the scarf stretched tight as he scrambles to hold onto him, his legs squeezing around Carl’s hips, mewling when his own desperate need to hold onto Carl makes his sensitive dick rub against the jeans Carl is still wearing.

Carl yelps, almost startled at the sudden pressure against his dick still confined inside his jeans, screwing his eyes shut tight as he buries his face against André’s neck.

“You,” André moans, “God, fuck.” His words are scrambled, and Carl grimaces at all the things he wants to do right now, but knows aren’t really an option: God, he wants to fuck him, but there’s no way he’s going to last more than ten seconds, he feels riled up enough to burst straight out of his skin.

“Let me,” he groans, shifting enough to work a hand between them, clumsily undoing the buttons at the front of his jeans with barely enough space between them to move his fingers, pushing away the fabric of his jeans, and then his dick is free to rub against the wet, slick heat of André’s crotch, and yeah, fuck, maybe ten seconds was too ambitious as his own come spurts between them, adding to the mess, gasping through the orgasm that tingles all the way down to his fingertips and toes as he gracelessly humps against André’s skin. He forces himself to take a deep breath, trusting André to take his weight as he sinks into their hot embrace, feeling entirely boneless.

  
  


“You can’t be serious.”

Carl looks up from where he’d been busy undoing the buttons on the silk pillowcase. “Hm?” he asks as the last button comes free, allowing him to strip it off the pillow.

André has a towel wrapped around his waist. His skin is glistening where he hasn’t dried himself off entirely, the early morning sun just rising over the desert catching on the droplets caught in his chest hair. “I thought you were joking,” he says, indicating the pillowcase Carl is buttoning up again, then folding twice before he rolls it up, hides it in his bag.

“Well, I’m not stealing the whole pillow,” he argues, slinging the bag over his shoulder. He’s dressed in last night’s clothes, knows he doesn’t have much time to return to his own room for a shower and change before he’s got to join Jev’s entourage to go to the track. Breakfast will have to be cut short. He hopes he can steal something from the eMotion lounge during free practice: he’d kill for a croissant. Walking over to André, he slings his arm around André’s waist, pressing a kiss against his shoulder before drawing him into a long, gentle kiss. “My souvenir. My trophy,” he says, nipping at André’s lips playfully. “You better make sure you get yourself one this weekend too.”


End file.
